He Was Seventeen
by Ash Gray Kitsune
Summary: Most of the time, when things happened to the Avengers (i.e., Clint and Tony), they were actually fairly warranted. And usually hit the correct targets, taught a lesson.. They didn't expect that to happen to their handler, and to Coulson's credit, he was handling it relatively well. Even if he was crushing hard on Clint...
1. Chapter 1

You have fifty-seven voicemails. Please enter your SHIELD Identity Number.

-taptap-. -taptaptaptap-

First message. -click-

"Alright, I don't have much time left, but what I do have, I'm gonna use better than you. Now shut up, sit down, and listen…"

* * *

If Phil Coulson could have pinpointed the day his life turned upside down and became an endless stream of paperwork and annoyed grief, he would have pointed to a quiet day in March, in 2004. It should have been cause for celebration; he'd just been promoted to senior agent, had reached level six clearance, and he'd even beaten Fury at chess. He should have been enjoying his accolades and readying for the new task of forming his own strike team...But no.

That was the day Clinton Francis Barton, newly transferred from a jarhead regiment in the Middle East, punched Sitwell in the face over a can of Mountain Dew and led the whole of the then current agent population of SHIELD on a merry chase that ended with Phil putting a taser dart into his knee cap. Unfortunately, that only pissed him off, and Phil got tackled for the first time since he'd been made senior agent. It took three huge agents to pull Barton off, but not before the sniper got a punch in that left Phil with a split lip and a burning urge to thoroughly thrash him. Or kiss him.

Fast forward ten years and seven bitch fights later (they were SHIELD legend at this point, much to Clint's pride, and Coulson's annoyed dismay. May and Natasha had kept count), and Clint was the best specialist they had ever had. He was smart enough to read the signs, stubborn as a goat, and steady as a monolith; too many times to count, Coulson had trusted Clint's eyes over all the other intelligence he'd had at his disposal, because Clint didn't do things by halves, and he sure as hell didn't look the other direction. They'd reconciled their differences over good beer and better pizza, developing a rapport that Fury routinely called 'romantic' under his breath, and that Phil simply acknowledged with a slim smile before jabbing an elbow into his superior's gut.

Oh, the last decade had certainly brought the two closer together, especially after Natasha joined their team, but Phil...well. He didn't believe in breaking that rule, not when Clint already caught so much shit about his last...several exes. He didn't want to add to that number, either...and if he were honest with himself, he didn't want to be the cause of the gray sadness that lined Clint's face, like...others. It was selfish, and he knew it, but still…Clint mattered to him, and Phil wasn't even sure the man would even want a relationship with another man; for all intents and purposes, Clint was as straight as his arrows, and there was little sense in adding awkwardness where there need be none.

"Twenty klicks out and coming in fast, bossman." Clint's voice sounded, soft and sure in his ear, and Phil let a little sliver of a smile cross his lips. Yeah, even if this was all he had, it was more than enough. This was the life they knew, had, really, always known. His gun was a comforting weight in his hand, the winds were dying down just enough…"Fair winds today." Even if Clint couldn't quite make out what the dark clouds to the south were bringing, he knew what to do, what he always had to do...

"Very much so. Where are you?" This would, hopefully, be an easy job; he was tired, and he really was looking forward to a day or so off. Clint and Tasha were due over at his place tomorrow anyway for their weekly Dinner Theatre; Clint would cook and shoo the two of them out of the kitchen, while Phil and Natasha both educated him on musicals, plays, and classic movies. Sometimes they switched it up to music, though he had quite an ear for it anyway, and sometimes it was books. Reading aloud, because the man who could snipe a fly off a daisy at five hundred yards and barely brush pollen off the flower had a hell of a hard time focusing on words. Phil never minded; Clint loved listening anyway, and it was easier for him to concentrate.

"Highest perch there is, you know that." Dammit, that meant...

"...Up on the radio tower?"

"You know it. Ten klicks, sir." Goddammit. Of course...

"Barton…"

"Five klicks and counting." Oh, there was going to be hell to pay for this one.

"Will you please come down?" Too late, the song of arrows filled his comm as the winds howled for a moment, something huge and heavy landing on the roof, and Phil swore softly, cocking his gun and bounding up the stairwell he'd been resting on. He took the six flights two, three steps at a time, heart hammering as his footfalls, normally silent, pounded through the concrete and metal, ringing all the way up. Arrowfall still sang in his ears, and as he shoved through the metal door Clint had so graciously left unlocked, he had to pause at the brilliant sunlight, half-blinded.

"SIR, GET DOWN!" Clint's howl through the comm unit brought him into immediate focus, and Phil dove for the gravel as something huge and heavy dove down towards him, turning up at the last second by the arrow that imbeded itself in the roof, nearly to the fletching. Phil rolled to his feet easily and took off at a run, bringing his gun up to fire at...damn. What he was staring at now defied any normal explaination, and he might not have recognized the monster for what it really was if he hadn't glimpsed a scrap of fabric, tangled in the long mane, covered in runic symbols.

"Dammit, Barton, you didn't say it was Asgardian!"

"I didn't realize Loki'd gotten out! Or that the slimy shit could shape-shift!" Phil hissed angrily as a brilliant green tail lashed out, sending up a stinging spray of gravel while the serpent that Loki had become grinned viciously, all teeth and gaping jaws. If you looked closely, you could just make out the golden horns just above those slit-pupiled eyes, and the mane flowed from between them all the way down against rope after rope after rope of long, sinewy green scales, and Phil felt his heart stutter as the beast poured over the gravel, emerald eyes glinting.

"Welcome, Ageeent Coulsssson. I presssssume you remember me?" His voice was a mockery of the smooth accent he usually had, higher pitched and far more deadly. Loki towered over him, looking too much like that world wyrm thing Thor had mentioned last...Uroboros, that's what he looked like. A monster of monsters, hell bent on revenge...

"Much, much to my dismay." Phil unloaded a clip into the monster's maw and as Loki reared back, screaming in rage, he took off towards the immense radio tower, just as Clint started in with his speciality arrows, the ones Phil always, always ended up banning from active duty. He had to admit though, the frost tip was very effective, and sent Loki back against the roof itself, the enormous serpent screaming obscenities as ice splintered over his eyes and nostrils.

The second was one actually created from the Destroyer that Loki himself had sent down, really not that long ago...and fire erupted where the ice had torn into the scales, and Phil deemed it prudent to haul ass as Loki started spitting, poison and blood splattering in steaming droplets all over the gray stone. Clint met him on the roof's gray surface just as he made the tower, the ropes he'd swung down on abandoned, and the two took off towards the other end of the warehouse, Clint's ruby lenses glinting in the bright sunlight.

"Helluva day, sir!" The grin on his face was all teeth and little amusement, and Phil smirked faintly, turning only to fire a few more shots at the beast, who had shrunk a little, flinging off bits of charred scale and frozen mane, still howling in anger.

"Helluva day indeed, Barton! Extraction point!"

"East of the building, Tasha's got the chopper! We're gonna have to swing it!" Phil squawked as he stumbled, Clint catching his jacket and hauling him back upright in the few seconds he'd delayed them. He was thankful for that strength, but only for a moment as he processed those words.

"Are you kidding me?!" Clint grinned wider now, humor clearly lighting his eyes as he drew his bow, the warehouse's edge coming close. He had to be kidding, absolutely had to be...

"Nope! Best way to get down, especially fast! There's Nat, c'mon!" Clint paused for a breath, half a moment, and his grappling arrow flew like a shadow of the wind, latching onto the helicoptor's skids and fanning out dual lines. Phil caught his and still running, swore softly; he hated the jump, the sudden weightlessness…when behind them, he heard the terrible hiss of scale on stone, and risked a look back. Loki was shifting back, half snake, half Asgardian, all monster as he clawed and slunk over the stone, blood marring his handsome, cold features, one eye ravaged by the fire and ice, his face and bared chest covered in burns still icy on the edges. He raised a hand, hissing out a spell that he then flung into the air between them and Phil jerked back just as they hit the edge, his hands slipping on the line as alien magic burned through his body.

"COULSON!" Clint's voice, normally so loud and belligerant and damned annoying, was fading in his ears, and wasn't that ironic, because he was screaming, screaming Phil's name, Phil could see that, as the wind whipped around him, and he fell, the spell wrapping around his conscious and-

Darkness.

* * *

You have fifty-one voicemails.

"Hey, you still there? Good, because seriously, this shit...this shit sucks. So much. And it doesn't get any easier…

* * *

"Barton, you will let me pass."

"Over my dead body, sir."

"...That can be arranged very, very easily.."

"You'll see him when Bruce is done."

"Dr. Banner…"

"Is just as trained as any other physician, and Coulson personally trusts him."

"...You have ten more minutes." The voices, they were odd; a deep voice, one that tolerated no nonsense, and a very slightly higher one, that clearly didn't give two shits about the other one...and then there was the quiet murmur of whoever was flashing a light in Phil's eyes and generally checking him over...Phil came to with a start and a bit-off swear, hissing faintly at the bright light and...were those restraints?

"Where the ever-living fuck am I?!" He snapped out, tensing against the leather and wool straps, more pissed off than he'd ever been, even when that bitch Amanda had stolen his boyfriend at homecoming. "And who the hell are you?" He snarled at the startled man with the curly, salt-and-pepper hair and round glasses. He looked careworn and rumpled, like he'd just been in bed, and Phil's lip curled a little in disdain. He didn't think he'd done anything to get him put in the hospital, but that was clearly where he was... The older man sighed, taking off his glasses, and settled back in his chair.

"Phillip James Coulson?" Phil stiffened, jaw set, and the man sighed again, this time more out of annoyance than weariness. "Look, I'll let you go if you promise two things."

"...What things?"

"Don't take a swing at me, for one. Neither of us, nor anyone else, will like the result." Came the enigmatic reply, and Phil raised an eyebrow, but nodded. That was fair...mostly. He really wanted to pick a fight right now, though…."Second, I need you to promise me that no matter what, you'll at least hear myself, and those who want to talk to you, out. Because we're doing this for your welfare, Phil, and we'd really like to make things work for a possible long-term." Phil blinked, cocking his head now, more than a little confused.

"...Okay, fine. I won't hit you, and I'll listen to you. But, seriously, the hell is going on?"

"First off, I know your name, but you clearly don't know me. I'm Bruce Banner." He popped the buckles and let Phil shake out the pins and needles before offering a big, calloused hand. "Second, you were attacked by a magical spell that's managed to revert you from forty-nine to somewhere in your teen years." Phil gaped for a long moment, then gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He was vaguely aware of the voices quieting in the doorway, but there was a curtain up, and all he could see were tall shadows lurking, listening. He ignored them.

"You're shitting me, right?" Bruce raised an eyebrow, hand still extended. "C'mon, dude, Bruce or whatever your name is, I can't be almost fifty. I can't." Phil ignored his hand now, working the rest of the restraints off, frowning at the loose suit he was wearing. The shirt wasn't that much bigger, but the pants barely stayed on his hips, and they were just a little too long; the jacket, or at least, he thought it was the jacket, was bunched up next to his pillow. Dark blue eyes darted around the room, narrowing at the small window, and the smaller vent above. If he could just...

"Please don't try to escape." Bruce's wry voice froze him, and the doctor sighed, settling back and flipping through an obscenely thick file. From what little Phil could see, half of the notes were heavily redacted. "Look, you're not nearly as good as you think you are, and unfortunately, SHIELD has your entire dossier. Including your juvie record." Phil made a noise best defined as a squeak at that, eyes going wide as he stared. "Oh yes. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm very impressed by what I've heard."

"You…"

"Mmmhmm."

"Yet?"

"We're not idiots, Phil, so you'd best get used to that. To be fair, though, it took you some time to adjust the first time around…"

"Are we done, Doctor Banner?" The deep voice sounded again, making Phil jump, eyes wide and his face going pale, because that did not sound friendly in the least...and a tall, one-eyed black man rounded the curtain, his long leather trenchcoat hardly concealing the obvious body armor under it. He was armed to the teeth, clearly, and Phil shivered at the opaque darkness in his eye. The man looked like he thrived on terror...and then Phil's eyes locked on the man that came around the curtain behind him, and he shifted, just a hair, to hide the sudden reaction.

Because this guy? This guy was built, just the way Phil liked, and the teen felt his mouth go dry at the sight of those truly incredible arms. He was all muscle and craggy, handsome features, the stubble on his face just that extra layer of sex appeal. And those eyes...dark as stormclouds and just as alluring, ruby-tinted sunglasses pushing back blond-brown spiky hair as he crossed his arms and outright glared at the one-eyed man. The body armor they wore was similiar, save this guy had no sleeves and...was that a shooting glove? Oh sweet god…

"You've seen him, now get the fuck out." Even that gravelly voice was sexy, and Phil suppressed a whimper with sheer willpower, keeping his gaze locked on the taller man, because if he focused on Sexy over there…hell, even the tight band around his neck that held his earpiece was sexy, black leather on tanned skin, the cords in his neck just delicious looking...

"Barton, I will shoot you." Barton, okay, that was a good name, it suited him, and Phil swallowed his arousal with difficulty, drawing all of his considerable anger and dismay into haughty arrogance. He was good at that.

"Who the fuck are you?" He demanded, bluffing for all his skinny worth, and hoping very, very much so that no one called him on it. One-eye gave him a look that made him want to apologize, but he held his ground, hands fisted in the sheets, before the other man sighed.

"...Director Nick Fury, of SHIELD. You don't remember who you were, obviously, but I know quite well who you are, right at this moment. Phillip James Coulson, seventeen, proud miscreant of Boston, MA. Son of Robert and Julie Coulson, born July eighth, nineteen sixty-four, huge Captain America fanboy-"

"Stop!" He squawked, trying not to glance at Barton, though he could see a distinctly odd expression on the man's face. He looked...like he wanted to...but why…"I want to see my parents! I'm a minor still, you can't hold me without my parents being notified!" He demanded, feeling seven, not seventeen...and his breath stuttered as a deafening silence filled the room. Fury looked taken back, Barton had bitten off a swear, and Banner was looking down. Phil gulped audibly.

"Please...I just wanna talk to my mom."

"...I'm very sorry, Phillip." Fury said quietly, and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. Banner followed, eyes pointedly ahead, and Phil stared after them, fear welling in his heart.

"Wait...please…"

"They're gone, kiddo." Barton's voice was softer now, sad and broken in a way that Phil didn't understand, and he looked at the man, really looked at him. And started to shake.

"Gone where?" He sounded like a little boy, and Barton's face twisted, some long-seated grief clawing under the surface before he settled on patient, honest sympathy.

"They passed away when you were thirty, Phil. I'm very sorry...they aren't here anymore." He gaped, disbelieving, and Barton winced, shaking his head a little. "I'm sorry, I really am, but-"

"Barton, assignment." The earpiece hanging off the band around his throat chirped, and he hissed out another foul word.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, kid, I gotta go...look, I'll see if we can get Steve down here, he's...he's better at this. I'm sorry…" He took off as Phil startled back to awareness, and the teen felt despair wash over him as the door shut, ever so gently...the first sob took him completely by surprise, and he dissolved into a child's tears, more alone than he'd ever been.

"Mom…"

* * *

Clint felt like he wanted to throw up. Actually, throw up, then shoot himself in the head for leaving Phil back there, all alone...but Bruce wasn't going to tell the kid the truth, because Bruce had despised his parents, and Fury...Fury was expedient. And the sooner Coulson was back to normal, the better. But Clint...Clint had loved his mom, even if his old man had been a fuckin' drunk and abusive asshole, and Phil had loved his parents, and they him, with all his heart...and Clint did love Phil.

That was the crux of it, really. The painful, heart-breaking crux of it. And Clint resolutely shoved those feelings back into the damn closet for the time being. And prayed that his foray down to the briefing room would bring him into close proximity of the one damn person in this whole building that could actually do something about this whole fucking mess...His head snapped up as he heard the rising voices ahead, and he breathed a faint thanks out when he recognized one. Cap was annoyed at the junior agents, but too polite to say no to their requests for autographs...well, Clint had no problem whatsoever interrupting. He pushed his lenses down and took a deep breath.

"Get the fuck back to your posts, junies, before I call Coulson on your sorry asses!" He snapped out as he rounded the corner, face a hawkish mask, mouth twisted in a scowl. The junies scrambled out of his way silently, racing off to face someone far less imposing, and Steve closed his eyes, rubbing his temple.

"Thanks, Clint…"

"Don't mention it...Look...I...we have a problem." Steve sighed a little, and Clint felt his heart fall.

"I know about Phil..."

"He didn't know his parents were dead. He doesn't know...anything but that he's seventeen and now that he's totally alone." Clint could have smacked himself for blurting that out, and he winced as Steve froze, those bright blue eyes snapping wide open. Steve didn't often look like that; like he was seeing ghosts seventy years in the past, but when he did, Clint knew now to wait, be patient…

"Which room?" That was Cap, all Cap, none of Steve's sweet innocence showing in the frozen blue eyes, and Clint felt his spine straighten at the order in those words, shoulders dropping back.

"Down the hall to your left, seventh door on the right. Unmarked, though you'll probably still be able to hear the sound of a young man crying." Steve brushed past him, and Clint risked getting put into the wall to grasp his shoulder, pausing him. "...Go easy on him. He's not the soldier you knew, he's not even the man he was." Those eyes seemed to thaw, just a little, and Clint let him go, watching until the dark blue leather went around the corner. He wanted to go back, but...his earpiece chirped again, and he swore, long and loud and full of venom, and settled for stomping down to the briefing room.

There was gonna be hell to pay for this.

* * *

You have forty-three voicemails.

"I don't want this. I want to go home, but there's no one left...you asshole, you fucking asshole, you shoulda left something like this...just in case.

* * *

Phil had soaked the expensive suit jacket by the time the soft knock sounded on the door; in all honesty, he wasn't sure that he even really heard a knock, or just wished he did, until the knob turned and a tall shadow eased into the room. He hiccuped weakly and rolled towards the wall, curling around his pillow and the jacket, clutching the only things he had to his name so close, so maybe no one would take them from him.

"Go 'way…"

"Phil?" The voice was low and masculine, but gentle; oddly gentle with the size of the man that settled on his bed. He was big, that much Phil could sense, but how much so, he could only guess from shadows and the weight pulling him back towards the door, the mattress sinking a little more. He shivered, too aware that he hadn't even been left a blanket, and hiccuped again.

"Please, jus' go 'way…" He stammered out, eyes squeezing shut. He didn't want this, didn't want to be here, wanted to go home...wanted to go home to his mom and his dad, to his chocolate Lab, Roxy, and the quiet home he'd grown up in...When the sudden realization that that, all of that, was gone, really hit him. He started to sob harder now, every wall he'd ever had up breaking, and he barely heard the bitten off curse before two big arms hauled him upright and he was pressed to a warm, leather-covered chest.

He howled his grief and fury, lost himself in the whirlwind of sorrow, and gradually, painfully, cried himself hoarse. The grief drained out just as slowly, leaving him quiet and sniffling, cradled to the man's chest like a child...and for this guy's size, he almost could have been a little kid. This man was enormous, all around, and Phil felt his tension ease, just a little, as a big, calloused hand stroked through his hair, deep voice singing a soft, soft Irish lullaby. Why that particular song struck him, he wasn't sure; it was odd to hear, almost, but comforting, and where there had been knife-sharp shards before, numbness crept in. It wasn't...good. But it wasn't as bad. And maybe, that was good.

"...Thanks, Mister…?"

"Just Steve. I'm sorry, so sorry, Phil, that things had to come out this way…" That was when he looked up, brows knitting at the name 'Steve'...and Phil's jaw dropped open. The man who had held him as he bawled like a baby was none other than a very concerned looking Steven Rogers...Captain freakin' America. Phil felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly with the newest shock, and Steve must have seen something in his face, because the man pulled back and pressed an empty wastebin into his arms...and Phil lost everything he'd ever had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

* * *

"...All due respect, sir, but you can take your high-handed bullshit and shove it up your-"

"Agent Barton would be better suited on surveillance detail for the latest of Loki's victims." Natasha cut him off smoothly, shooting a glare his way as his mouth hung open, and he snapped his jaw shut with a growl, turning to stare out the window. She could deal with Fury's shit today; he'd done more than enough already, and he closed his eyes with a grimace, flashing back to just a little while earlier, when they'd been so close to escaping...so close…

Phil was looking back, Clint didn't know why, but he was looking back at the thing Loki had become, and Clint fired the dual lines, hoping he could get his handler's head back in the game. He knew the temptation was there, to take on the sorry bastard and get a little revenge, but pragmatism came with experience, and if ever there was something out of his league, Loki was certainly it. But Phil was catching the line, jumping off...and the son of a bitch, he looked back again...and this time, it all went to hell. The flash of light seared even through his lenses, and Clint had to blink several times before he realized that Phil was struck, and he was falling. He heard himself screaming from far away, even as his body slid down the line, reacting when he could not act of his own accord, and he wrenched his shoulder to catch his now unconcious handler, tying him onto the line before letting Natasha carry them away. Something was wrong, was so wrong, but Clint couldn't figure it out, and Phil was-

"Barton, your report." He grit his teeth, whole back tensing as the remembered pain shot through his shoulder blade; he wasn't badly hurt, it'd just be a bitch to draw the bowstring for a day or two, and he wanted to ice it. But work first. He rattled off the report, sharp, too sharp, of course, always too acidic for Fury and Hill's tastes, but it was efficient. Efficient and brutally honest, and finally, they dismissed them both, and Clint beelined for Stark's undercover little bar, sunken in the bowels of the SHIELD building. Technically, it didn't exist, but also technically, neither did half of SHIELD, so Clint figured it didn't matter anyway. And god, he needed a drink and a smoke. And Tony would have both, at the ready.

To his surprise, both Bruce and Tony had the bar running today; he slipped inside, holding the door for Tasha, and locked it behind both of them; he didn't have a key, but he had a lockpick kit, and they were almost the same thing. Tony waved them over, and Clint looked interested in the way that the smoke from both their cigerettes didn't linger.

"Advanced filtration system, I wanted a place where we could really relax." He answered in lieu of an actual question, the stub resting between greasy fingers as he flickered over what Clint could only assume were the SHIELD databases. He just shrugged and stole two from the pack, offering one to a weary Natasha, who lit it, then his, and started mixing them both some shots.

"Thanks, Tony...this…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." The mechanic looked up now, dark eyes ringed with shadows and his normally trim beard scruffy, and his hands and arms were streaked in black grease, knuckles broken open and a hangnail forming. "Look...Bruce told me what happened. I take it Cap's…?"

"Hopefully explaining this shit to him. Because I...I can't. I fucking suck at emotions and crap anyway, and this…"

"Is a clusterfuck all around." That was Bruce, who stubbed out his cig and came over, nursing a rather large glass of scotch as he set his tablet on the counter between them, Coulson's dossier files uploaded on the scratched glass surface. "Whatever was done to him, he doesn't know what he was...and that makes him a hell of a liability. There are some very powerful people in this world, and outside of it, who hate Coulson with every inch of their being…" His blood ran cold; he could name seven off the top of his head.

"Fuck."

"Exactly. I've already put in paperwork to make us his legal guardians. And I contacted Strange." Now all three of them stared at Tony, and he grimaced. "Look, I know it's not something I like to do, but I've got no way of fixing him to back how he should be; Stephen might. No guarantees he won't drive me absolutely batshit, but at least this means Phil won't get taken by Child Services or some shit. And maybe this will wear off soon. Maybe not. Fuck if I know." Clint wanted to throw up again now, and he pushed away his alcohol, focusing instead on the burn of nicotine in his veins. He hadn't smoked in a few years, but today...it burned a little of the nausea away, and he rubbed his eyes.

"So we put him in the Tower till this shit is fixed; yeah, like one pissed off teenager will do great with six adults and an AI disciplining him." He muttered, and Bruce sighed.

"Better that than have him dead." Okay, yeah, that was so true, and Clint did his damnedest to hide the twitch; judging by Natasha's faint eyebrow, he wasn't entirely successful. But Tony barreled on, setting up plans already for Phil's rooms to be retrofitted with gaming systems and new clothes, and locking Phil's access to the lower levels until otherwise specified. He personally didn't think this was gonna work; actually, he was already laying a bet in his head that not even Gambit would take that this shit was all gonna backfire. But it was all they had, and at the moment, he'd rather have that, than have Phil dead.

Fuck, he was so screwed.

* * *

Phil had never been so miserable in all his young life. And if he was counting the last time he'd spent three days in the Boston Juvenile Detention Center...yeah, this was pretty bad. He was hunched over in ratty jeans and a band shirt borrowed from that Tony guy; he was a bit manic and annoying, but nice enough to lend him clothes. Clint...that was Barton's first name, and Phil had finally managed to stop swooning around him, had offered, but all the clothes he'd brought were just too big…he'd saved one of the belts offered, though, and it was a comforting weight around his waist as he was escorted through into the basement of the enormous Tower, his eyes wide and bewildered. This place...this place was massive!

How the hell had Stark built it all? He knew about Iron Man now, and of course he'd known about Cap...and this whole Avengers thing, it seemed bizarre, insane that the world still needed superheroes this far into the future...and that he had been the one to organize them. It seemed...crazy. Insane. Terrifying…he hunched over the bundle in his arms, the suit he'd been in when whatever the fuck had happened to him wrapped up neatly, and he clutched it close. It was a lifeline, of sorts, of normalcy, even if it wasn't his kind of normal. A big arm rested lightly over his shoulders, and he glanced up, startled.

Clint's face looked like it could have been carved from stone, silent behind those ever present lenses, but the arm was reasuring and strong, and Phil leaned into it, a little surprised by the comfort it gave him. They passed into the elevator, just two of the Avengers and Phil, (Bruce and Tony were talking to some guy named Stephen, and the Black Widow was nowhere to be seen) and he closed his eyes, feeling the slow climb up to what he assumed were the living quarters. Tony had explained everything, brown eyes flashing as he laid out the quarters Phil would have, and the conditions he would be living under. Phil didn't like it, but he couldn't debate it; Bruce and Fury had been in the room too, quiet and serious, and they'd all explained that without the Avengers, without SHIELD...he didn't stand a chance. And he'd had the time to read over a little of his files…

He really was alone.

"Thanks…"

"...No prob. How're you...how're you doing?" Clint looked at him now, and Phil swallowed, painfully aware of the height difference between them; it didn't seem like much at first, but Clint was a good five or so inches taller...and just...yeah, okay, he had to get his head out of his ass. The guy was just being nice, and clearly felt awkward as fuck.

"...I'm...okay." He replied quietly, carefully, and Clint was watching him, gauging his response, and he gave a weak, sad laugh. "Well, okay, I feel like shit, but...yeah. I'm...I'm okay." A soft huff of a laugh made him smile, just a little, and Clint's arm left his shoulders, big hands settling deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Phil felt just that little bit colder.

"That's...that's good...So, um, right now, Tony and the others have it set up so technically we're your legal guardians until this...crap stops, okay?"

"...Dude, you can swear around me."

"You're like, fifteen, and I get in enough trouble as it is." Phil gave him a glare and Clint just shrugged. "What, it's true, and no, don't look at me like that."

"I'm seven-fucking-teen!"

"Language, Phil." He winced as Captain-...Steve sighed behind them, looking odd in plaid and khaki. "And stop baiting Clint, please. Tony does that enough as it is." He grumbled just a little, but the elevator chose at that moment to ding open, onto a neat, modern hallway that led to a handsome oak door. He was escorted over steel gray carpeting, and Clint opened the door...to a nice apartment, clearly that of an older man's, but...Phil felt his heart leap. Along the wall to his left, his whole Captain America collection stood proud and strong, even his trading cards...to his right, a small kitchenette, barely a cabinet, a range, and a microwave, but it was enough. Just beyond the bar-counter of the kitchen was a small couch and huge panel of glass; it popped alive with news and sports, and he realized it was a damned television, so slim it could be mounted on the wall.

"Whoa…" Back to the left was a door half-open; he could see a handsome bed and what looked like a deep closet, and he figured the bathroom was just beyond it too. It wasn't huge, by any means, but going from his tiny attic bedroom at the top of his parent's house to...this...it was palacial in size. It was all perfect...and he was dimly aware of Clint slipping out, Steve almost following him. He turned, swallowing the lump in his throat, and Steve gave him a weary, gentle smile.

"Dinner's at six; one of us can come get you, if you'd like, or we can just send you an alert to your phone."

"An...an alert's fine...thanks. Um...yeah...thanks."

"You're welcome. Just let us know if you need anything, alright?"

"S-sure…" Steve closed the door gently, and Phil swallowed, turning back. This was it...he ducked his head. "Mom…."

"What do I do?"

**AN: Sorry about the huge wall of text; I had to reformat the whole document, sorry guys!**


	2. Chapter 2

You have thirty-eight voicemails.

"I thought a night in Charlestown was hell. I'm sorry you had to deal with these dickheads. Or maybe not; you did take the job voluntarily. Idiot."

* * *

That first night had been hell; twice, Clint found himself in the vents, sweatpants and tee shirt getting dusty as could be as he checked on Coulson...Phil. Phil. Right. Because this wasn't his handler, the unflappable bastard he'd had the hots for since...well...that first fight. He still had the scar on his kneecap, and he knew that Phil had let his ass off easy. Even if Cooper, Bradson, and Johns hadn't dragged him off, Clint probably would have stopped after that one punch anyway; he hadn't realized he was taking down a senior agent. Still proud of that, though...but...Clint wasn't gonna let him be alone...not after what they'd just told him. That was just too cruel…

Phil slept poorly; Clint wasn't surprised in the least, and he sat up the second time, just watching him toss and turn and occasionally lift his head to check the Starkphone Tony had given him. And all the while, Clint studied him. His eyes flickered over that strong young jaw, the patch of muscle and skin on his abdomen, blessedly unscarred by a scepter from an insane god. Long arms and legs, slender but muscled; a track star's legs, certainly, if those thighs were as toned as they seemed...And he felt like a fuckin' perv. But someone had to watch over him, and Clint...well. The hours clicked by, punctuated only by the soft flash of the phone's screen and Phil's tossing, and finally, as gray dawn filtered through the blinds, Clint withdrew just as silently as he'd come.

He returned to his rooms and took a long, cold shower, scrubbing away the memories and dust with his harshest brush, gasping a little as the water went straight to ice. It hurt, so much, but it was better than the sight of Phil's mouth open, gasping softly in his sleep, shirt riding up, pants sliding down...the reaction was immediate. He hissed and punched the wall of his shower, snarling at himself as he willed his dick to behave.

"No, goddammit! He's just a fuckin' kid! Just a fuckin' kid, with no parents, and no fucking home."

"Agent Barton?" Jarvis's concerned voice brought him out of the sudden rage, and he glanced over at his hand...currently buried in the now broken tiles, and as he flexed, he hissed again, this time with pain as two broken knuckles ground together. "Should I contact Doctor Banner-"

"No, no, it's fine, Jarv, just...yeah, just...let me wrap these. Is my kit still in my room?"

"Of course; Agent Romanov restocked it, in case you should need it."

"...I'll thank her too. Thanks…I'll be on the range if anyone needs me." There was a soft huff, the equivalent of Jarvis sighing, and he rolled his eyes, carefully dislodging his hand. The pain had done what his mind could not; he didn't know if that was necessarily a good thing now, but let the shards fall to the tub basin. "You know damn good and well I'm ambidextrous; they won't get much strain if I hold the bow with this hand. I need to improve my right hand's draw strength anyway. Just...don't tell anyone."

"...I disagree with that, personally, Agent, but if you insist. I shall even direct the Captain to visit Agent Coulson instead of yourself, which he was about to do." Clint looked up at that, grinning just a little as he washed the ceramic dust and blood out of the deep cuts and inspecting the torn skin. No muscle damage, just a few more scars on his knuckles. Natasha would call his bluff, but probably wouldn't do much about it; he'd hurt himself far worse, for far worse reasons, and she wasn't too inclined to care much unless he sliced an artery or something of the like.

"...Thanks, Jarvis. Anything I can do for you in return?"

"Do not feed sir expresso. The Captain made a very incorrect choice this morning." Clint smiled to himself as he stepped out of the shower, one-handed tying his towel and wrapping his hand in one of the dark purple terry cloths Tasha had gotten him for his birthday two years ago. The blood was starting to taper off, thankfully, and he took a little bit to wrap it all up neatly, crossing the bandages over his knuckles. He tied them off, and fished out his left handed glove carefully, drawing it on with a faint wince. It would hurt like a bitch for a while, but if he just let them sit, they'd swell badly, and if he had to go out fighting...well. This was easier. More painful, but easier.

"Deal."

"I appreciate your understanding, Agent Barton."

"As do I, yours." He got dressed, old jeans and a tee-shirt as usual,d and shoved his feet into thick old socks, then into his motorcycle boots. His bow sat, as always, in its cradle above his headboard, and he pulled down a basic quiver with simple shafts from his weapons case, and scooped it up, taking distinct comfort in her curves and weight. He might be conflicted about everything else right now...but he never was with Artemis. He left a message on his door's plate for anyone who might come looking for him; most likely not, but he'd long since learned not to just disappear. It wasn't worth Natasha's pissy mood for three months after, and really, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary; unless he was on a mission, ten to one he was at the gorgeous range Tony had created for him in the vast basement of the Tower. Contrary to popular belief, Tony didn't have his den down there; no, all that was in the basement was the gun range, and a vast archery/sniper range, built into the bedrock of Manhattan, and designed to recreate any possible environment on Earth.

A baker's dozen of advanced AI drones and bots lorded over its terrain and artificial weather system, and Clint had the most unique training simulation on the planet. And he fuckin' loved it. He could do nearly anything he wanted, train under any condition he could dream of, and at the end of the day, one particular little bot always cleaned up the shell casings, or fetched his arrows for him. He hadn't been to SHIELD's pathetic excuse for a range for that exact reason in almost six months. Part of that too may have been bribery on Tony's part, but Clint didn't mind too much; here, he could get into his headspace, and wonder of wonders, people actually left him the fuck alone.

It was glorious.

So much so, that by the time he'd spent all of his arrows and was checking the string as his favorite 'bot brought his ammo back, he hadn't even realized Natasha was watching him until she cleared her throat. He winced at the yelp and jump he gave, pain shooting through his bad shoulder and hand, but there too, if Tasha didn't want to be seen...she wouldn't be.

"What happened to your left hand?" Ah, nothing slipped her eye, and he sighed.

"Punched a wall." It did no good to lie to her; he'd seen the unfortunate bastards she'd punished for that offense, and had no intention of ending up on a SHIELD burn list.

"...Did the wall make a joke about your face?" That got a short weak laugh out of him, and he shook his head, settling Artemis on the arms table as he gathered up the small pile of arrows his bot was leaving for him.

"Surprisingly, no, but Jarvis is more polite than that."

"Mmm. True. So." That one word hovered in the air, and he took off his sunglasses, scrubbing his good hand through hair now dark with sweat. His left hand ached brutally, as did the muscles in his right arm, but they were minor compared to the turmoil in his heart and head. Especially now, when Tasha's brilliant green eyes were holding him in place. If he moved, even breathed wrong, she'd be on him like fire to tinder.

"...Trust me, you don't want to know, Nat." He kept his tone light, gentle almost, placing the shafts in their slots just so, knowing what was coming…

"You don't trust yourself around Phil." Yup. Right on the head.

"You could be a damned psychic, you know that?" Her laugh was soft, a little sad, and she dropped into a loose crouch next to him, watching as he tucked each arrow away. There was something of a cat's stare in her eyes; he'd told her that once, before they'd become such good friends, and Natasha hadn't, surprisingly, taken it badly. Most women assumed it was a pussy joke; she had simply cocked her head and asked him to explain.

"You know that wouldn't work, and I'd be bored. Can I ask why, or should I keep guessing?"

"I'm quite sure you can guess just fine, Tasha. Look...I'm trying my damnedest here not to be the creepy motherfucker. I'm thirty five; Phil is...was almost fifty. That, that we could have managed; I wouldn't even have batted an eyelash, and he probably would have gotten a few jabs about cradle robbing, but... But this...this is all wrong. And damn, he's fuckin' sexy even now." The look she gave him was almost soft, sweet for her, and full of sympathy; she'd known, through Bobbi and Drew and Jan and the others...known that his door swung both ways, and that when he finally fell...he fell hard for the man with the innocent smile and the killer headlock.

"Mmm...you are succeeding. But it's been, what, a day? You can't stay on the range forever; at some point, you will have to see him."

"And say what? Do what? He doesn't remember us, Nat. He doesn't remember Wednesday dinners and jokes over the comms, doesn't remember that you like your pirogi with sausage and egg and that I'd sooner starve than eat a well-done steak. He doesn't remember your favorite color or my favorite band, he didn't even know that his parents had been dead for nearly twenty years. He's seventeen in body and mind, and he's alone; and I saw the way he looked at me when I first came into his room." She winced at that; he knew she'd seen the security footage, knew she understood now. "Yeah…"

"...Then we educate him. And limit your contact, for your sanity's sake. Hell, Cap's already elected himself babysitter for the day, so we might as well go hide in Tony's shop."

"And what makes you think that Cap won't come down with him? We all know that Steve only pretends to hate Tony…" She gave a snort, partly because it was true, and partly because he was clearly being an idiot, and those eyes locked on his.

"...Because Stephen Strange is down there with Tony and Bruce, and Stephen will not allow Steve to bring Phil down just yet." He gulped suddenly, freezing in place, and she nodded, faint and a little unnerved herself. "And his orders are to bring you to him."

"...Well, fuck."

* * *

"Thank you for seeing me, Agent." As far as allies went, Stephen Strange was the only one that simultaneously terrified and intrigued Clint, and he had a healthy respect for the man and his very real powers. He'd seen some shit as a carny, but Strange...he was the real McCoy. Strange, in turn, had a respect for Clint that the archer still found slightly gratifying; Richards always gave him colossal shit for his bow and arrows, as did many of the other superheroes. But Stephen...did not. It was refreshing, but at the moment, he was more concerned with the serious expression on the adept's face. He looked...worried. And that never boded well. He glanced down at Clint's hand, though, and belatedly, he remembered his broken bones; a wordless gesture from Strange, and the pain vanished, the bones knitting seamlessly. It wasn't much, but...

"It's an honor, Doctor, and thank you...what can I do to help?"

"Can you describe Loki's form to me, please? Fury's reports...are singularly unhelpful, and Natasha's camera from the helicopter is badly altered by the magics that caught Agent Coulson, and I can't get a clear image. Please, I would not ask otherwise…" No, he wouldn't. Clint knew that. He took a deep breath, and with the help of some of Tony's holographic drawing programs, he was able to mostly recreate what Loki had looked like in his serpent form, and the half-human form he'd begun to transform back into when the attack had occurred. Finally, he was finished, and Stephen took over, toying with the holograms, his brow furrowed.

"...That's all I have…" He murmured, pulling off the bandages and examining the broken skin. It hurt to flex, sure, but the bones were perfectly aligned, and if he gave himself a day, he could go back to drawing with his left hand. He owed the man a real thank you; he still had some contacts in the underbelly of the world, and he knew Strange was looking for certain magical things, so he made a mental note to put the word out.

"That's...more than enough, Agent. I have never seen this sort of power before, not even in Loki; there is something deeply amiss here. Tony, you said Thor had returned to Asgard some weeks ago, yes?" Tony came up behind them, a wrench twirling uneasily in his fingers. He didn't like Strange in his sanctuary, no, but for his part, Stephen never did judge the level of filth Tony preferred to work in, and so Tony accepted it. Not well, mind you, but he did accept it. And whenever Stephen did consultation for the Avengers, he was clear, concise, and did not speak in the normal magical mumbo-jumbo Tony despised.

"Yeah, just said he had some family matters to take care of. We all figured it was Loki, to be honest...and Jane hasn't gotten a good or bad word from Asgard via Heimdall, so…"

"Well, I think I can pinpoint one thing; this isn't Loki." Clint's head snapped up, staring at the mage, and Stephen's lips twisted in faint anger. "No, it certainly is not; Loki is mad, yes, and dangerous, doubly so...but he is not reckless like this. He is conniving and cunning, and this...this is all brute power, all very real, unfortunately, but still an illusion. Whoever created this creature wanted us to believe it to be the Trickster God." Clint tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but ended up croaking anyway.

"So...there's no way to fix…"

"...That, I'm not so sure of. The spell, ironically enough, is one of Loki's, and one of his most powerful; were he the castor, it would certainly be permanent. In fact, Agent Coulson's age would then begin to regress, to the point where he became nothing but atoms." Clint wanted to throw up again at that, nausea swirling in his gut, but Strange's powers took over the holograms at that point, white-blue energy filling the normal blue screens. Tony was distinctly annoyed, but to Clint's surprise, allowed it. "This...this is an oddity indeed. I examined his suit, and found traces of what seems to be an earthly magic; something that is notoriously hard to transform anything with, even if I haven't seen this particular type before. I will meet with Agent Coulson later, but I truly believe he will return to his older self soon; how soon, I cannot say, but...the spell is already beginning to unravel." All the air left Clint's lungs in a weak laugh, and he covered it with a cough, standing once more.

"Alright, thanks...Can I ask why you wanted me down here in particular, other than the description?" He gave Strange a relieved, vague smile...though it died at the man's next words.

"Of course. Because whoever cast this spell knew you are in love with Agent Coulson."

* * *

You have thirty-six voicemails.

"How in the hell are you so blind? Seriously. You're gettin' up there, geezer…"

* * *

Phil didn't want to wake up. He'd laid in bed, far past his alarm, and he knew it had to be close to noon now; Steve come and gone, and come back again, but rather than force him to get up, he'd simply asked if Phil needed anything, and offered a light breakfast. The teenager had been polite, all things considered, but turned him down; between the aching grief that seemed to fill his bones and the constant nausea, food was the farthest thing from his mind...in fact, everything but the depression that seemed to fill his very soul seemed distant and unimportant.

He just wanted to disappear.

"...Mr. Coulson?" He stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowing, before he remembered; Tony's artificial intelligence. Right. What's-his-name…

"...Yeah, Jarvis?"

"Might I offer some assistance?" He snorted softly, and covered his eyes with his arm; if the richest guy in the world couldn't do anything to help him besides put him up, then a computer couldn't.

"Nah, it's okay. I'm just...gonna stay here."

"...Forgive me for being impolite, but...you cannot simply remain in this room forever. You need to eat, to drink, to use the facilities; you also need interaction. Wasting away will do no one any benefit; least of all yourself." Phil groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets back over himself.

"Look, I don't wanna get up, so I'm not gonna. You wanna do something? Leave me the hell alone, okay?" Or better yet, get me that sexy agent...He felt his lips twitch up a little at that, a tiny spark of arousal easing the pain, but his smile died after a moment. Clint wouldn't be interested in a fuckin' scrawny ass like himself; he was the kind of guy that women threw themselves at. Not the kind of guy who had the hots for other dudes. Which, as far as Phil was concerned, was a crying shame, but what could he do? He didn't want to alienate anyone here...he already felt alienated enough.

"Mr. Coulson…"

"Mr. was my old man. I'm just Phil. Now leave me the hell alone." That was pretty damned rude, he knew that, but Phil had given up on caring. So instead of occupying himself like he used to when he was stuck in bed, with a hand in his pants and a fantasy, he curled up and resolutely put everything from his mind; Clint, the last twenty-four hours, Mom, Dad...and he let the gray numbness wash over him once more. It wasn't a nice feeling, but it didn't hurt. And maybe, that was all he needed after all.

* * *

"Captain Rogers?" Steve raised a heavy head from where it had been cushioned on his fist as he scrolled through the local news reports, keeping himself up to date on the world outside, carefully tipping back to give the ceiling his attention. A year ago, he would have thought himself insane for talking to the AI that ran Tony's Tower with such aplomb; now, it was just polite.

"Yeah, Jarvis?"

"I believe Agent Coulson may need someone to intervene; he will not eat, will not attempt to leave the bed. And will not accept my suggestions." There was a hint of annoyance there, and Steve hid a smile. Jarvis did not take kindly to anyone but Tony being a pain in his ass; Tony, he suspected, was solely because the man actually did listen to the AI. If belatedly. But Jarvis was right; Steve had coddled him this morning, because he still remembered what it had been like when he'd lost his Ma. He remembered the loneliness and the grief, the sorrow so deep, it never seemed to heal...and Bucky had been right with him, then. Even after Buck had fallen into that fissure...he'd had Peggy and the Commandos. And after all of that, his makeshift, broken family here.

"I believe you're right, as usual, Jarvis. Thank you; I thought giving him some space might help."

"Thank you, Captain; you were correct, but he is lapsing back into depression and stupor, and for the sake of all involved, I determined that this must not happen." There was a thread of something in the AI's voice...worry? That didn't surprise Steve; Jarvis was extraordinary in his own right, moreso now than ever before, and once again, he was astounded by the level of intelligence and will Tony had given his creations. It didn't seem like much to Tony, but to Steve…

"I understand. Are they done in the workshop?"

"They are. Doctor Strange would like to meet with Agent Coulson, if you would be so kind as to escort him down?" Steve grinned at that, and stood.

"Oh, I think I can manage that…"

* * *

Clint was still standing there, gaping and struck dumb, when Steve finally dragged a fighting, pissed off Phil Coulson into the workshop, carrying him like a naughty kitten by the scruff of his tee shirt while Phil tried to swing at him. The sight alone was hilarious, but Clint could barely bring himself to think, let alone laugh.

"I don't care if you really are Cap, get the fuck off me!"

"You really are full of piss and vinegar, aren't you?" Steve was as calm as a clam, and dumped the teen onto Tony's battered orange couch before standing back, crossing his arms, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his left bicep. "Sorry for the delay, Stephen…" Strange just hid a faint smile and shook his head.

"It's quite alright; I see he's very unhappy with the circumstances?"

"You're damn right I am!" Phil snapped out, righting himself with a few loud, choice swears, and Clint snapped out of his reverie, slipping back to lose himself behind Natasha. Phil must not have seen him just yet; he breathed a faint prayer. She gave him a pitying glance, but focused her attention on their deaged handler now, and he did as well, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"Fair enough. Phil Coulson, I'm Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme and ally of the Avengers." He stared up at Strange, all the fight banked, and Clint swallowed. He looked even better in a tight tee shirt and jeans; he must have borrowed a pair of Tony's battered Converse, too, because the black monochromes were ripped and scuffed. He had more hair at this age, too, and it was cutely ruffled, contrasting with the hot anger in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

Goddamn, he was gorgeous like that; it took every ounce of self-control the archer had to not stalk over there, throw the sexy little shit over his shoulder, and run off.

"...So, you're what? A mage?"

"Mmhmm. And I'm here to figure out how much time you have left under that spell."

"And how the hell do you do that?" Stephen took his demands in stride, and spent the next half-hour or so explaining, carefully and concisely, what exactly he was doing as he examined Phil. He never once touched the boy, but clearly, he didn't need to; when he lifted a patch of the spell up, it drew away from Phil's skin like a net, leaving the boy startled and looking rather afraid now. Clint did not like seeing that on his face, and averted his eyes, studying something, anything but Phil, until Stephen finally stepped back. His eyes lit on the kitchen sink cookies, and he felt his brows knit together; Bruce caught his gaze and simply smiled, mouthing 'For Tony'. He let the faint smile twitch over his lips, and nodded.

"Well, there's good news, and bad news." Tony sighed, and rubbed a greasy hand over his face, ignoring the streaks of motor oil that ended up all over his cheekbones and into his hair. Steve just winced in sympathy for the person on laundry duty.

"Give us the bad news first."

"He'll be under this spell for longer than I anticipated."

"And the good news?" That was Nat, hands on her hips and lips thinned to a dangerously thin line.

"...We only have until July to wait. His eighteenth birthday will break the spell." Everyone seemed to blink at that, and Clint shifted, sighing a bit. No one jumped at the obvious elephant in the room, so he took a stab at it.

"Why at eighteen?" His voice was still hoarse from the dust last night, and from lack of sleep, and Phil's eyes locked on him, a strange look in them...no. He knew that sort of look. It was a hunger, the hunger of a horny teenage male, and Clint felt distinctly ashamed that his dick twitched in response. He managed to obliterate his reaction by imagining Fury in a bikini.

A string one.

"...This is purely conjecture on my part, but I believe that whoever stole this spell, they changed it. And one of the changes is a much shortened, and ultimately, less hazardous duration; once he turns eighteen, on the stroke of the hour he was born, he will return to the man he once was."

"You're sure of this?" Steve took over now, saving Clint's skin. Clint reminded himself to make the man his favorite pizza later.

"Yes. Until then, I think it is very prudent to continue as you have all planned; keep him safe, because until July, those who once feared him, and find out about this occurance, will seek every means to destroy him. Phil…" He turned back to the teen, who had gone pale, eyes wide and huge, and Clint swallowed. Even if he was uncomfortable, he hated seeing Phil look like that. It just wasn't right. "You must listen to them, and allow the Avengers to aid you; if you do not, none of us can protect you, and believe me, you'll need protecting." He turned now, not unkindly, and bowed low.

"Thank you for calling on my services; I'll be back by the end of the week to check on him. Please, don't hesitate to call." Tony grinned a little, and reached out, offering his hand; Stephen shook it with a matching smile, completely ignoring the grease all over his gloves.

"Does this mean you'll be billing me?"

"Only a reduced fee, my friend; I must put bread on my table too."

"Of course. Let us know if you need anything, alright?"

"I shall. Good day, everyone." With that, he vanished in a swirl of darkness and light, and Tony sighed.

"I hate when he does that shit…"

"But we got some answers, and that's worth it." Steve stepped forward now, and Clint...he slipped out of the workshop, unsurprised when the others let him go. He...needed a moment. Actually, he needed to fuckin' shoot something, but that was out of the question. So instead, he beelined to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and decided to make a sandwich. A slim hand touched the back of his shoulder, tentative, and he sighed.

"How long has everyone known?" Natasha leaned into his back, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he tipped his head back, eyes closing, one big hand closing over her smaller ones. She'd once been someone he'd been hopelessly in love with, and now, she was the closest to a sister that he'd ever had. And ever would have. "Nat…"

"Since I defected, at least. Fury? Probably longer. The rest of the superhero community? Probably just in the last year." He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh, and knocked back his whiskey, savoring the sweet burn as he slathered mustard on a thick slice of wheat and started piling on veggies.

"Son of a bitch…"

"That about sums it up. Clint…"

"I know, I'm a sorry excuse…"

"He loves you." He paused, turned in her arms, his food forgotten...her eyes were sad, so sad, and he swallowed painfully.

"...I love him too. But...I can't…"

"I know. Can I help?" There was something in her gaze, a determination to do all she could for him...and he knew, if he asked for anything, anything at all...she'd do it. Even if it crossed lines they both promised would never be crossed again. He just hugged her tight instead, breathing in the faint scent of peony and cherry blossom; she never smelled the same twice, an old habit from her days in the Red Room that they never had really broken. It was one of a thousand things that he knew, and that Phil had known, and it...hurt that he didn't know them now. He wasn't mad about it, not at Phil, at least, but...it still hurt.

"...Just...Help me be the man he deserves." Two slender hands came up around his neck, and she smiled; he could feel it, it was so big.

"I can do that."

* * *

You have thirty-three voicemails.

"So, this whole twenty-first century shit is both amazing, and really, really fucking weird. And you clearly need to get laid, okay?"

* * *

A week in, Clint wasn't so sure they were going to survive the next three and a half months after all; in that time, Phil had managed to wreck absolute havoc on the entire Tower. The kitchen was in utter shambles, the den where they usually collapsed for movies and pizza after a battle was smothered in exploded marshmallow, and if they hadn't had protocols in place to keep Phil on only the main level and his rooms, he was sure they'd have lost the workshop and range as well. Tony was even now secluding himself down in the shop, trying to save the fridge and oven; the microwave was a lost cause, and how the fuck had that happened?!

Because Phillip J. Coulson was a goddamned terror, that's why, and here he was dragging the brat down to the gym, locking all access until he'd gotten some of that hellish energy worked out. Clint didn't particularly want to be alone with him, but Steve was pulling his hair out and swearing, Tony's eye was twitching, Bruce had been greenish since Tuesday, and Nat...well. Best to just avoid Nat entirely. And Thor was still incommunicado. Which meant Clint pulled what he liked to call 'junie duty.'

"What the hell, man?!" Phil hadn't much liked getting dragged by the scruff down, and Clint didn't care, dumping his ass unceremoniously onto the floor, settling his weight back and loosening his shoulders. He had his light gear on, and a cup, just in case; the constant weight of Phil's glances was...unnerving. And a little uncomfortable, too, and well...at this point, he wasn't putting anything past the boy. That wasn't a kind thought, but...it was the truth.

"What the hell is goin' through your head, that you have to destroy our home?" He kept his voice soft and sharp, eyes narrowed, and Phil glared back up at him. Oh, so it was gonna be like that, huh? He had a few tricks up his sleeves as well...and they weren't just his throwing knives. But really, he was pretty damned pissed off about the kitchen; it was his sanctuary, like the lab was Bruce's, the shop Tony's, the greenhouse Nat's and Steve's. "Well? Whether you like it or not, this is our place, and we're letting you stay here." A sneer twisted the kid's lips, and Clint's hackles rose in response.

"Oh yeah, that's so damn kind of you; here, little guy, let's show you how to do this, and this, and this, because you're a kid from the eighties, and you don't know nothin' about this fancy technology! Well, y'know what? I'm not fucking stupid! And I wanna go out, I wanna see the city." Clint sighed a little to himself, wondering if his parents had been this exasperated too; probably not, judging by the way Phil remembered them fondly. This was for authority figures, then, like the police, principals, the like. It was really fucking annoying.

"Tough shit, you can't. And you know damn good and well why; you signed the paperwork, and I know Hill explained this shit to you." God, it's like the kid didn't listen...Clint knew he'd been explained all of this, at least ten times by now. And he'd been a shit himself at that age, but not nearly this bad. Spoilt, that's what Fury had called him...

"It's just a fuckin' piece of paper. C'mon, it's been a week, I just wanna go out once!"

"It's a contract, you little pissant, and we've held up our end of the bargain; we got you clothes you like, got you games and books and pretty much unlimited fucking internet. You can go just about anywhere in the Tower if you just ask; hell, Jarvis is even authorized to let you come down to this gym, or the pool, and you can ask for any of us to join you, unless we're fuckin' saving the world. Which, y'know, is our full time fucking job, by the way. It's not fucking easy, and it's not that damned rewarding."

"So? Whatever." Phil stood up and brushed off his jeans, stalking to the other side of the room, and Clint felt his eye start to twitch. Don't kill your deaged handler, don't kill your deaged handler... "So, you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?" Oh, this brat was asking for it so fuckin' bad...

"Oh, I'll do something. You just won't like it." Phil gave him a smirk, and Clint felt his blood heat, just a little; there was something about that expression that transcended age. Because older Phil had done it too...with the same heat in his eyes. He tried to brush it off, tried to pretend it didn't affect him...and Phil saw right through him, as always. The smile honest to god scared him; it was all teeth and sexy, sexy young masculinity, and Clint felt his knees quiver. He'd made the worst mistake...

"So you brought me down here to have your way with me? Ooh, I think I like that…" He swaggered over, letting his jeans drop a little on his hips, and Clint's heartbeat sped up, his mouth going dry. Oh, fuck…"Yeah, not every day you get a twink to yourself, is it, big boy?" Phil's voice dropped too, a low croon that had Clint licking his lips unconciously, and he backed up a step, then two; Phil kept coming, and before he knew it, he was pressed to the wall, and Phil was pressed against him, and those gorgeous lips were hovering just below his. Clint closed his eyes, tried to breathe….and in the span of a second, had Phil spun around and pinned to the ground.

He ignored the yelp as he shifted his grip, grabbing his arms, and ignored too how Phil bucked up against him. His hands shook a little as he secured his arms behind his back with cuffs; even if Phil knew how to slip them at this age, Clint had time to get the hell away...And so he sat the boy on a pile of mats, let himself out of the gym...and locked Phil in, slumping against the door, shaking. He brought his hands up and buried his head in them, fighting the urge to just go back in there...and do what? Screw Phil absolutely senseless? Break a dozen sodomy and pedophilia laws? Yeah, no. He sat there for a long while, listening to the faint yelling from Phil, and just let himself try to calm down; it was all he could do.

"I'm sorry, Phil...I'm so fuckin' sorry…"

* * *

Bruce glanced up at where Tony was tinkering with the oven; the fridge was a lost cause, and a new one should be arriving soon, but he was hopeful that the gas range, at least, could be salvaged; the oven itself wasn't injured, and for that, Bruce was thankful. Clint would have been very unhappy to not be able to bake his casseroles. And by extension, everyone else would have been too. Tony sighed, sat back, and Bruce ambled over, offering him a glass of milk and a plate of cookies; it was his way of treating the mechanic, who rarely, actually, ate any sugary things, and also forcing a little socialization.

Tony took it with surprising grace, in spite of the raised eyebrow, and rested the plate on his workbench. They were simple kitchen sink cookies, made up a couple nights ago when Clint had been silent and pensieve, and while most still sat in the jar upstairs, Bruce had pilfered a few for the shop and his lab.

"So, this Phil is, shockingly, much more annoying than older Phil. I will be very happy when older Phil returns." He sighed out, sipping his milk...and Jarvis was the one who answered, sounding rather anxious.

"Agent Barton most of all. Sir, I think you need to see this…" A view of the gym's security footage came up, and both Tony and Bruce zeroed in on it...before Tony swore heavily. It was obvious that Clint had been sent to keep Phil in line, and of course that was a bad idea...because this was a Phil with few, if any, inhibitions, and Clint...they watched the argument, then Phil start stalking up to Clint...and Bruce hissed as the teenager pinned the archer to the wall, though Clint's hands remained clenched at his sides, and just as they were to kiss, or rather Phil to kiss him...Clint pinned him to the ground, secured him, and got himself out of the situation. Jarvis obliged them with footage from the outside of the door, and while Phil thrashed and swore and yelled, Clint buried his head in his hands and was obviously shaking badly.

"...Fuck."

"This is going to be a problem; if he's going to hit on Clint like that, and Clint's a short fuse on a good day." Tony glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and Bruce sighed. "I don't think he'll do anything like that; it obviously revolts him to even think about, and it's cruel to just assume he would. But I think we need to consider that he might be pushed past his own control, because this Phil is very, very good at needling in on the most tender spots. I suspect that's why his older self is so caring…" Tony stared at him, mouth working...and a vicious grin split his lips.

"So, we need to find someone to do the same to him, and put him utterly in his place." They both shared a long smirk, and came to the solution at the same time.

"Pepper."


End file.
